


sugar pie, honey bunch

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Barista Clarke, Coffee Shops, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 20:37:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14089164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: She doesn’t let herself think about it too much, setting his drink on the counter with a brisk nod his way.Shedoes, however, chance a peek at his face as she sets about making the next order. His eyes widen as he does a double-take at his cup, and he pauses midway to the door, turning to look at her as if surprised.Or, the one where Clarke starts writing bad pick up lines on her regular customer's coffee cups. It's definitelyjustto cheer him up.





	sugar pie, honey bunch

**Author's Note:**

> _BFF prompt: I wrote a bad pick up line on your cup to make you smile because you seemed stressed and sad. I didn't intend to make this a thing but now every time you order a coffee I write a silly pick up line._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (title from the Four Tops song)
> 
> ((if you haven't heard it pls check it out [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ndnINyBPRU)!! guaranteed to put a smile on your face))

****  
  


 

“Hi, what can I get you today?”

 

The man shuffles up to the counter looking tiredly up at the menu, and Clarke tilts her head in faint recognition. She’s seen this guy around a few times before, with his dark curls and the thick glasses that do little to hide his freckles. If she’s remembering right, he always orders—

 

“A long black, please,” he says, already reaching for his wallet. “Large.”

 

“One large long black,” she echoes, entering it into the register. She watches as he pulls money out of his wallet, noting the slumped set of his shoulders. Huh. Has he always looked that… _burdened?_

 

“Keep the change,” he says as he hands over the money. He drifts away, already tucking his wallet back into his pockets.

 

“I— okay,” Clarke mutters to herself, turning away. She didn’t even get to ask his name to write it on his cup, but then again, there’s only one other person in the queue. It’s not like she’ll be able to confuse two orders without a name.

 

She sneaks another surreptitious glance at him over the machines as she works. He’s not looking at his phone, or checking his watch, or doing any of the things all the other patrons do as they wait for their coffee. He’s just... _standing_ there. Staring at nothing, like the weight of his own thoughts is too great for him to even think about doing anything else.

 

On a whim, she grabs the black Sharpie she uses to write names on cups.

 

_You’re as fine as the beans I used to make this coffee._

 

She doesn’t let herself think about it too much, setting his drink on the counter with a brisk nod his way.

 

She _does,_ however, chance a peek at his face as she sets about making a cappuccino for the lady who’d been behind him in line. His eyes widen as he does a double-take at the cup, and he pauses midway out the door, turning to look at her as if surprised.

 

Doing her best to shove the urge to blush aside, she tosses him a smile — small and quick as lightning — and, without a word, returns to her work.

 

(She may or may not look up at the ding of the bell announcing his exit from the shop. She also may or may not observe that he has nice shoulders.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

He comes in again three days later, and this time, he looks nervous.

 

“Hi,” he says, and then clears his throat. “Um, one long black, please?”

 

“In a large?” she asks, perfectly pleasantly.

 

“Yes. Please,” he adds, blinking somewhat self-consciously. He hands over a couple of bills. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome,” she says, sliding the register closed.

 

He doesn’t look anywhere near as wrecked as he did a few days ago, but he looks so wary as she’s preparing his order — watching her closely, his expression warmly amused but largely trepidatious — that she almost feels bad. Like she’d be letting him down if she _didn’t_ write anything on his cup.

 

She makes sure to make eye contact with him as she serves him this time, handing over his cup with another small smile and watching as his eyes flit immediately to the writing there, already turned towards him.

 

_I like your smile a latte._

 

Technically, it’s a lie, because she’s never actually _seen_ him smile — but right then, he _does,_ his face stretching into a grin that’s wide and brilliant and bright and it’s _so beautiful_ that she actually feels her breath hitch in her throat, like she’s in a cheesy romance novel.

 

“Cute,” he says, raising his cup to her like he’s toasting her.

 

She grins right back, because it’s really either that or a helpless swoon, and she is _not_ going to fucking _swoon._ “I try,” she says, daring to throw in a wink before turning away to attend to the customer approaching the register.

 

She’s not sure, but she thinks she just might hear a laugh from him. It’s really barely more than a _huff_ , but all the same, she enjoys it far more than she thinks she’s supposed to.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next time he comes in, the shop is a little on the crowded side. It’s not exactly peak hour anymore, but on Mondays, they’re usually pretty packed all the way through to lunch.

 

Monty’s in charge of taking orders so she doesn’t get to interact with him much, aside from a couple of exchanged glances over the machines and milk cartons and syrup bottles she’s handling all at once. Despite that, she _does_ manage to catch his name as he gives it to Monty, right as she’s swerving around Jasper to get to the ice box.

 

Once his coffee is ready, she grabs the cup and a spare Sharpie from the little basket by the register. She turns away from her co-workers in a not-so-subtle attempt at hiding what she’s doing from them, and hastily scribbles an addendum underneath Monty’s neat letters that spell out _“Bellamy”._ Hoping desperately that it’ll be legible to his eyes, she whirls about and places it on the counter, calling out “Long black for Bellamy!”

 

He takes one look at her message, connected to the print of his name by a messy arrow, the point of which overlaps the tail of the ‘y’ in his name and leading his eyes just off the side to where she’s written: _That’s a nice name but I’d rather call you mine._

 

He looks up with a wide grin, and once again she’s struck by how much _wonder_ there always seems to be hiding in the pockets of his amusement, like he legitimately can’t believe what he’s seeing in front of his eyes.

 

“Careful,” she says with a flippant wink. “It’s hot.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Clarke first took the job at the coffee shop, she was looking for a way to save up enough money to detach herself from her mother while juggling college at the same time.

 

She wasn’t expecting the job to become one of her absolute favourite parts of her week.

 

There’s just something relaxing about spending hours and hours doing nothing but making coffee and wiping down tables and heating muffins and sandwiches up in the large microwave. Yeah, okay, the constant smiling and talking _does_ get exhausting somewhere around the two-hour mark, but she’s gotten used enough to it now that it barely even bothers her anymore, turning it on and off almost automatically.

 

For just a few hours, she’s allowed to stop thinking of her obligations and responsibilities and family and assignments and deadlines and ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends and just worry about when it’s her turn to wash out the coffee machines or turn on the dishwasher.

Truth be told, she never really thought of the job as _fulfilling_ — how much impact can she really be making on anyone's life just by handing them a cup of coffee — but these days, she's finding a little more fulfillment than she ever thought she would.

 

She gets another good laugh from Bellamy with _"Are you a campfire? Cause you're hot and I want s'more."_ She thinks she’s got a good chance of getting the same results with _"Nice shirt; I can just tell it’s made of boyfriend material",_ but she's surprised to see him blushing hotly instead, cheeks flushing red around the edges of his smile. (Not that she’s complaining. The man’s cute no matter what his face is doing.)

 

Sometimes they’re not pick-up lines, just regular coffee jokes and puns that pop into her head that she thinks he might appreciate. One of her particular favourites was _"How did Moses make his coffee? Hebrews it”_ but it had a lot less to do with the joke itself and significantly more to do with the half-snort it elicited from him as he was reading it, like he’d been caught off-guard by the extent of his own amusement.

 

As much as she tells herself not to expect anything — after all, she writes the notes to cheer him up, not to bait him into giving her a bigger tip or any other kind of reciprocatory gesture — she can’t help but feel a stab of disappointment every time he tears his smiling eyes from hers and walks out of the shop without a word.

 

The _important_ thing is that he’s stopped looking like he’s carrying the literal weight of his world on his shoulders every time he comes in.

 

And then one day, he _doesn’t_ walk off right after reading her message.

 

He steps even closer to the counter, turning the cup towards her. “Is that within health code regulations?”

 

She drops the rag she’s been using to wipe down the counter with and cocks a brow, pretending to consider her own handwriting spelling out _If you were a booger I'd pick you first._ “Only if you’re a licensed inspector with the USDA.” She pauses, tilting her head. “ _Are_ you a licensed inspector with the USDA?”

 

“I am not a licensed inspector with the USDA,” he confirms gravely, his eyes still crinkled with amusement. “But I _could_ be.”

 

“Explains why you keep hanging round here, then,” she quips, expecting a laugh in response — but then he just ducks his head, one hand going to the back of his neck. With a flash of panic that she’s embarrassed him somehow, she forges on. “Just don’t go in the back. That’s definitely _not_ where we keep our private animal menagerie. Very illegal, very exotic.”

 

“So the booger would be the least of my worries, then,” he says with a grin, his hand dropping from his neck. “I’ll include it in the report.”

 

She smiles right back, and starts to say something — but then she’s cut off by a sallow-faced man in business attire appearing at the order counter, clearing his throat like he’s been waiting five minutes instead of five seconds.

 

She glances back at him apologetically. “I gotta—”

 

“Yeah, no, please,” Bellamy says, hastily stepping back. “I don’t— I mean, yeah, I should go too.”

 

“Bellamy,” she calls out as he turns to go, and the wide-eyed look on his face when it swivels round towards her kind of matches how she feels. In all the weeks she’s been writing his name on paper cups and cardboard sleeves, she’s never actually _said_ his name out loud before.

 

Clearing her throat, she summons a polite smile and lifts her hand, index finger extended. “Don’t forget your coffee.”

 

Returning to the counter, he picks up the cup, and she doesn’t miss the way his eyes flick to her little handwritten message again before returning to meet hers. She’s probably mildly delusional for this, but she could _swear_ his irises gleam just that bit brighter.

 

“Thanks,” he says, throwing her another smile before turning away.

 

“Anytime,” she mutters, watching him go for far longer than she really should when she has a customer waiting.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She’s pretty proud of the one she comes up with for his next visit to the shop. After the past few weeks, she’s all but exhausted her mental list of cheesy pick-up lines and coffee puns, but after a quick Internet search the night before, she’s managed to come up with one that’s actually decently endearing.

 

As usual, she looks up from her work when he steps up to the counter to pick up his order, the easy smile already stretched on her face for when he meets her eye.

 

To her surprise, he doesn’t smile, or blush, or laugh, or perform any variation of the above that he’s done the last few weeks. Instead, his brows snap together upon reading her message, his gaze darting up to find her and then darting away again, before flicking right back to her, like he’s not sure how to proceed.

 

Her own smile fades, and she quickly returns to the double-shot frappuccino she’s making, her hands moving faster. Has she overstepped some kind of boundary? She didn’t think her message was any kind of inappropriate. _“Java number I can call you at?”_ It’s cute, isn’t it?

 

Without so much as a smile, Bellamy steps away from the counter and out of her view.

 

Her shoulders sag in disappointment. She’s upset him, and she didn’t even get to find out how or apologise for it.

 

_This is what you get when you start with cheesy pick-up lines,_ she scolds herself in her head, finishing up her current order with renewed vengeance. _Nice going, Griffin. You’ve officially chased the guy away for good._

 

She steps up to the counter with the completed drink. “Caramel frappuccino for—”

 

She breaks off at the sight of Bellamy reappearing a few feet off, blinking at her with his coffee in one hand. She can’t read his expression at all, and, fuck, it’s making her nervous.

 

“Hello?” A teenage girl waves her hand impatiently. “That’s mine.”

 

Clarke shakes her head, turning to her. “Oh, right,” she says, sliding the drink over. “Sorry. Enjoy.”

 

As soon as the girl walks off, she turns right back to Bellamy. “Hey.”

 

“Hey,” he says, stepping up to the counter and glancing around, as if making sure they’re alone. She follows his lead, but it’s unnecessary. It’s near empty in the shop now that the teenager’s gone, with just one or two tables in the far corner occupied. They’re about as alone as can be. “I—” he starts, and then stops, shaking his head.

 

After a long, awkward beat, he extends his other hand, and drops something on the counter. “Here.”

 

A napkin sits in front of her, diagonally folded over.

 

“Uh,” she says, staring at it. “Thank you?” She would crack a joke about how it’s not the worst tip she’s ever gotten, but somehow, she doesn’t think it’s the right time.

 

He exhales, a little shakily. “Open it.”

 

Shrugging slightly, she reaches for the napkin and does as he says.

 

Right in the centre, in bold, black pen strokes she’s never seen before but has a strong suspicion she would be able to identify as his regardless, it reads: _I was gonna ask for your number first but affogato._

 

Heart leaping in her chest, she looks back up at him, her cheeks already flushing warmly.

 

“I was, uh, trying not to be that asshole who hits on you while you’re at work,” he confesses, scratching at his head with a wry smile, “but I don’t really have any _other_ ways to hit on you, so… sorry to be that asshole.”

 

She shakes her head, the corners of her mouth turning up helplessly. “I’m starting to see why you don’t take any sugar with your coffee.”

 

His brows lift questioningly.

 

“I wouldn’t either,” she says, “if I were that sweet.”

 

She lets herself bask in his grin all she wants, the brightness of it reflecting onto her like a warm sunny day.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed this quick lil bite-size piece of fluff!
> 
> i'm also [on tumblr](http://ticogirls.tumblr.com)


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